


for my heart sings with you

by oceangraves



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Here's my contribution to the dead fandom, I love them so much, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, enjoltaire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27739024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceangraves/pseuds/oceangraves
Summary: It’s a fight he had always been in, teeth bared, claws unsheathed, but his heart was never throbbing with this new pain of his-- knowing he was rejected, he was an outcast, he was falling in love.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	for my heart sings with you

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one day because of boredom, so it isn't very detailed and well-thought out. I just sat down and wrote this without planning. There's a lack of dialogue and character study that I'm awfully aware of, but I hope that it doesn't ruin anything and hope you enjoy.

**I. Enjolras**

He remembers the first time he heard the word “gay”.

He was sitting under the stars studying the gathering constellations, letting the millennium-old starlight shine on his skin and the grass around him. There were other people present, other than his father. They were whispering amongst themselves, in awe of the countless diamonds the gods scattered across the horizon, reminding man they were so small, so miniscule. 

Then he hears it.

“Are they gay?” Whispers from his left, directed at two boys in front of him who were huddled together in the winter breeze, whispering to each other in their own little world.

The people to the left of him stood up, seemingly disgusted by the two boys in front of him. “Let’s leave. This is revolting.” The two boys were out of earshot, but Enjolras heard every word clearly. Oblivious, one of them kissed the forehead of the other and intertwined their fingers, and Enjolras’ young mind wrapped itself around the concept of it being _wrong, wrong, wrong._

He wonders if he would be like them one day, being with another boy beneath the stars for all to see. He wonders if he, too, would be disgusted with himself.

-

School, to him, was chattering around him, distant glares, and little exchanges of words. 

Maybe Enjolras was too overbearing for his classmates. Maybe Enjolras interrupted and dominated class discussions too often, raised his voice too often. He wondered if they were talking about him and his stubbornness, his tendency to become overwhelming when he was talking about the topics he was passionate about-- his teacher had told him he would be a politician of the future, but rousing speeches were to be left for after class. 

With this, Enjolras isolated himself. He knew how to pick his words to rouse sympathy and anger for the injustices around him, the phrasing to emphasize the points he would like to make; however, he did not know how to speak with gentle words, reassuring gestures. He did not know how to talk to people without seeming sombre and stiff, so when he stumbled across his classmate sobbing quietly to himself at the edge of the field, he stood in front of him, awkward and helpless.

"If you're here to make fun of me," the boy said between his rapid breaths, "Go away. You’ve done enough.” He was curled up, as if bracing for another attack.

“I’m not--” Enjolras started, then realised it would be inappropriate for him to raise his voice at someone who’s crying. He took a breath. “I don’t even know who made fun of you or what they said.”

“You’ll be one of them if you knew,” The boy said bitterly, his emerald eyes clouded with anger. Enjolras stood awkwardly in front of him for a moment, brushing down the creases of his coat. Whatever this classmate of his was angry about, it certainly was righteous anger, considering he was bracing himself for the worst when Enjolras showed up. Enjolras was not sure of what to do; he wrung the hem of his coat. Then, carefully but surely, he sat down next to his classmate, turning his gaze to his dark curls, the beauty marks on his left cheek.

“What’s your name?” Enjolras said, trying hard not to scare him away, praying this new acquaintance of his would understand his intentions. His classmate’s eyes were so bright all of a sudden, different from the anger and the grey that clouded his eyes he saw just moments earlier. After a moment of silence, the boy cast his gaze down to his untied shoelaces, his scraped knee.

“...Grantaire.” His voice was softer now. Grantaire wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, then turned to face Enjolras. “You’re Enjolras.”

Enjolras nodded. _How did you know?_

“Oh,” Grantaire seemed to have read his mind. “I’ve heard your rousing speeches in class. You’re…” He waved his hand in the air, searching for words. “Awfully optimistic.”

Enjolras looked at Grantaire, wondering how someone who was just crying would be smiling all of a sudden.  
  
“Well, that was a good introduction,” Grantaire chuckled to himself. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m used to it.”

Enjolras stiffened. “Why did… What did they do to you?”

Grantaire’s smile faded. He cast his gaze back down at his white shoes that were streaked with mud, studying the blood running down his legs and onto his shorts. “Nothing. Just pushed me around and said… things.”

Enjolras looked at the bruises that were starting to turn purple on Grantaire’s leg. “What did you even do?”

“I…” Grantaire started, then fell silent. He stood up, and as he did Enjolras saw the small cut on his elbow, another green and purple bruise forming on his arm. Grantaire turned to look at him and smiled, melancholic. “You’re awfully oblivious, aren’t you?”

“I’m not known to be sociable,” Enjolras retorted, then realised he was being rude. “I apologise--” he started, but Grantaire was laughing to himself, stars glimmering in his eyes.

“You’ll see.” Grantaire said sadly. “Come with me. When you get into the classroom, don’t follow me anymore.”

-

When Grantaire returned into the classroom, his classmates fell silent. Then whispers erupted, making Grantaire smile wryly at the faces Enjolras saw. Enjolras sat in the front row, so he never paid attention to the people who sat behind him. He saw their faces now, some of them twisted into a judgemental stare, some turning away, minding their own business in silence. 

“Hey, have you heard?” He hears one of the girls whisper to his left. “Grantaire, he’s… gay.”

Enjolras froze. He remembered the night under the stars, the two boys sitting in front of him. The first time he learnt it was a sin, something that was _wrong_ , something that made people disgusted. 

Yet Grantaire, from the moments of meeting him, he knew he wasn’t revolting. He understood he was a boy who cried silently, who laughed when he was sad. Enjolras found himself suppressing the urge to run and hide from the pit of his stomach, a familiar feeling of standing up for others with his words--  
  
“Leave him alone,” He found himself raising his voice, silencing all the whispers of his classmates. “He did nothing wrong.” 

“Nothing wrong?” One of the braver classmates sneered back at him. “You know what he is, now. It’s shameful as it is.” 

“What is so shameful about loving someone?” Enjolras flared, thinking about the delicate touches between those two boys he saw, how the stars leaned down to give them their blessing. “What is so wrong with that that you have to beat someone up for it?”

The class fell into hushed whispers and distant glares. Enjolras was used to it, but when he looked back at Grantaire, he was standing very still with his mouth slightly agape and a stunned expression on his face. He turned to look at Enjolras, as if to ask him, _Did you really just do that?_

Gruffly and without thinking, Enjolras walked up to him and pulled him out of the classroom.

As they stalked noisily down the halls, Enjolras kept brooding and glaring daggers into the tiles. Grantaire was silent behind him, and it took Enjolras quite a while to realise they were skipping class. He turned quickly to look at Grantaire. “I’m sorry I made you skip class, I…” 

  
“It’s alright,” Grantaire said quickly. “I… I really do feel a little sick.”

“They hurt you?”

“You know,” Grantaire laughed, his voice wavering, “you really do care a lot for someone you just met.”

“They hurt you. It’s wrong. Of course I care.”

“Right.” Grantaire looked a bit disappointed, somehow. Was he hoping for something? Enjolras pondered on the possibilities. His thoughts were interrupted when Grantaire put a hand over his mouth, rushing to the washroom. 

A moment later they were both hunched over a toilet bowl, with Grantaire throwing up ingloriously into the water, and Enjolras smoothing circles onto his back. When he was finished, he washed his hands in the sink, and turned to Enjolras. 

“Thank you.” Grantaire said, his gaze lowered at the floor, as if he were too shy to look at him in the eye. “This means a lot, and…” He looked up. “I suppose we count as friends now?”

Enjolras nodded. “It is only right that I speak up for you.”

Grantaire laughs. “Of course.” 

He thought of the history class he was skipping right now, and his fingers itched in irritation. “We’re both going to get detention.” 

“I don’t mind,” Grantaire said, as if nothing had happened just moments before. “Do you?”

Enjolras thought of his history class, then looked at Grantaire, the stars within his eyes, the constellations on his cheeks. He thought of the genuine, happy smile when he spoke up for him.

“No.”

He found himself smiling too.

-

He found himself gravitating to Grantaire after that for the following years. Both of them were at the ends of sneers and strange glances, and they had no one else to turn to. One was too outspoken, one was too pliant. It was good, Enjolras thought, because they balanced out each other. As the days passed, Enjolras learnt more and more about Grantaire. Grantaire had allergies, Grantaire was an avid enthusiast of art (which Enjolras didn’t understand, but he supposes everyone has their own passions), Grantaire had little cuts and bruises over his body all the time. 

They were in his room, after their exams had ended. It was a gruelling period for Enjolras; he had to fret over whether he studied enough when he had gone over the material several times before the day-- and it was exhausting. His eyes drooped; they had just finished their last exams, and Grantaire had kindly offered Enjolras stay at his house since his parents were never there, anyway.

It was a pleasant offer. The place was very… Grantaire, with little signs of his parents. Sketches and sketchbooks littered the floor. On his walls, there were remnants of splattered paint, with mugs and paints shoved messily into a cupboard. A guitar rested against the wall. They were sitting on his bed, Enjolras curled up with a book in his hands, Grantaire sitting beside him drawing in his sketchbook. Grantaire had always shied away from showing him his sketches; Enjolras was too tired to pry. He laid his head on Graintaire’s shoulder, taking in the warmth of another human. Grantaire stiffened, maybe he was surprised? Enjolras was too tired to think. 

“I’m just tired…” Enjolras explained himself, letting his head fall onto Grantaire’s lap. Grantaire had put down his sketchbook; he could feel his eyes rest on his face. His eyes were closing on their own accord, the exhaustion of exams was finally getting to him. The adrenaline was fading away. 

“Wake me up in thirty…” Enjolras could barely manage a sentence before he fell asleep. If he felt fingers card through his hair, he was imagining it. 

-

It was almost night when he woke up. Grantaire had put him in a more comfortable position on his bed, so gently he didn’t notice. Grantaire himself, too, had fallen asleep beside him. No wonder he didn’t wake him, Enjolras thought, as he looked at Grantaire’s sleeping face.

As they grew, Grantaire had grown a little bit of stubble. He had always been the one who looked more mature, he jokingly made fun of Enjolras’ baby face. Grantaire, with his sharp mouth and pessimism, would sing him songs on his guitar, would be shy when Enjolras asked him for permission to look at his sketches. 

The beauty marks on his cheeks had stayed though his face turned more mature. Enjolras reached out and touched them, the little constellation on his skin he first noticed when he met him. Grantaire was one the stars gave their blessings to, Enjolras was sure. He made his heart happy by being by his side, and Enjolras realised, oh, he was falling in love with him. 

The quiet of the night gave him solace for his revelation. It was a fight he had always been in, teeth bared, claws unsheathed, but his heart was never throbbing with this new pain of his-- knowing he was rejected, he was an outcast, he was falling in love.

Enjolras looked at the sleeping Grantaire, his eyes soft, his mind in a frenzy. This was new to him; emotions were never his forte. He was the cold voice of reason, of logic; Grantaire was the song of emotion, the lyre that pulls at people’s heartstrings. Yet, Grantaire was the only one he could ask about his feelings.

Enjolras thought of the green and purple galaxies on Grantaire’s skin, of the blood that had seeped into the hem of his shorts the day they met. He thought of the names he had heard his classmates call him, those that angered him so much he could not bear to name. He thought of Grantaire, sobbing into his shoulder in his room because his heart was sensitive and hurt easily. 

Enjolras pushed the feelings down.

**II. Grantaire**

Grantaire was not sure what to make of last night.

Enjolras had fallen asleep on his lap when he was sketching. It was so sudden Grantaire had not been able to prepare his rapidly beating heart and his nerves for that moment when the gods blessed him with such an intimate moment with the boy he loved. His golden hair curled around his legs, Enjolras’ lips were parted with every soft breath he took in his sleep. Grantaire could not resist the urge to card his fingers through his hair, to move him into a better position on his bed, and the worst part-- falling asleep next to him, as if they were lovers. 

_ Lovers… _ Grantaire smiled at the thought. How wonderful it would be if the world did not shame him for who he was. He loved boys, and he wondered if this golden boy would love him back.

Enjolras had pretty cerulean eyes and golden lashes, shaped like a marble statue of the ancient Greek gods, and Grantaire wondered if he were the living statue of Apollo. Marble skin, plump lips he would love to kiss one day, lovely golden hair that formed a halo around him in the sun. Grantaire loved his boy, the only boy who cared enough to stand up for him, who didn’t judge him for who he was.

He was content with being with him. He held the acceptance letter in his hands, his heart beating frantically with joy as he saw the familiar lovely face a distance away. He ran up to him, seeing Enjolras’ lips part with surprise, and hugged him tight. 

“I got in,” He whispered, giddy with excitement. “I got into the university I wanted!”   
  


“Really?” Enjolras’ frown unknit to reveal a small smile, Grantaire wished he could make him smile like that more, smile like that always. “I’m happy for you.”

Grantaire let go, suddenly shy. Why did he have the courage for such physical intimacy? “Now we’re both going to Paris,” He said. “Are you going to abandon me with the new friends you make?” 

Enjolras smirked. “I might.”

Grantaire slapped him playfully on his shoulder.

-

Their universities were both in Paris; Grantaire studied art and Enjolras studied Political Science. Their universities were an hour away from each other, and they managed to get a flat in the middle of that, so they could live together. It was Enjolras who made the suggestion. Grantaire would not even dare to think about the possibilities. Living together with Enjolras was nice. It was like having all the time in the world to spend time together, taking care of each other instead of having their time limited by school and parents. Enjolras was a surprisingly good cook, and Grantaire would handle the laundry since he managed to get paint on every piece of clothing he had. Their lives were simple: studying, eating, spending time together.

Enjolras had been going out more frequently, though. He had new friends to spend time with, leaving Grantaire alone to tend to his business at home, or maybe call Jehan for a nice cup of tea. He had met Jehan in his art history class, a lovely poet with flowers in his hair and kindness in his eyes, but none could compare to the blazing beauty that was Enjolras. 

He wondered if he would grow distant with Enjolras, now that he had new people to have fun with, to spend time with. Grantaire never showed support in Enjorlas’ idealistic beliefs, and always showed his scorn for his optimism, but Enjolras always understood his pessimism and melancholy. 

Grantaire swallows his insecurities with a shot of alcohol, then another, then another. He could hold his alcohol, so it took him quite a while for his cheeks to warm and his vision to become fuzzy. He heard the sound of the door opening; Enjolras was back.

“R,” He could hear the scorn in his voice; he had never approved of his drinking, even when they were young. “I told you.”

“Enjolras,” He was giddy, he was high on something. What was it? He doesn’t remember. “Enj. Apollo.”

“You’re drunk,” Enjolras had caught him as he stumbled, and even when intoxicated, he could feel his heart skip a beat.    
  
“And you don’t like it.” Grantaire smiled wryly. “You don’t like it at all.”   
  


Enjolras frowned. “Exactly, so why…” He sounded angry, he sounded hurt, but Grantaire wasn’t sober enough to know. He sat himself down back on the sofa--  _ their _ sofa, he thought giddily, patting the seat next to him. Enjolras put down his things and sat down.

“I’m only a little drunk.” Grantaire feigned a face of seriousness as he spoke. “Apollo, only a little.”

“And why?” Enjolras asked. He was gentle now, and gentle meant  _ cannot handle _ for Grantaire. But this time, he gave in.

“I’m scared you’ll leave me.” He was not smiling anymore. “Courfeyrac, Combeferre… Them. It makes me... “ Grantaire leaned into Enjolras as he spoke. “It makes me very jealous.”

Enjolras was still. “You understand?” Grantaire had a rush of impulse,  _ go for it, he’s going to abandon you anyway.  _ “I love you.”

And with that, he feels Enjolras stiffen.

Enjolras stands up, leaving a void of cold air next to him. He hears the door close, and Grantaire starts to cry.

-

Grantaire wakes the next morning with a pounding headache between his temples, and he groans. Then he remembered the events of yesterday, and stared at the wall. 

_ He definitely hates me now, I’m disgusting. Terrible. I’m gay, and I told him I love him. _

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire turns over slowly. His Apollo, his Enjolras, was sitting next to him, a concerned look on his face.

“Enj,” He breathed out, mildly panicked. He was thinking of ways to find an excuse and leave the room, before Enjolras spoke.

“I… I apologise for leaving so suddenly. I had to clear my head,” Enjolras said, looking at anywhere but Grantaire. “And… Grantaire, I have something to tell you.”

He finally looks up, looking directly at Grantaire. 

“You cried so much during high school,” Enjolras started. “It was because of the bullying, because you liked boys.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, apprehensive.

“I can’t bear to see you cry, R.” Enjolras was uncharacteristically soft, so honest with his feelings. He figured Enjolras was probably more comfortable with using gestures to express himself, because the next moment, their fingers were intertwined, and his lips were on Grantaire’s. 

It was a quick kiss, and Enjolras pulled away as if shy. “I don’t want that to happen to you again, so if you don’t wa--”   
  


“I want to,” Grantaire answered quickly. “It’s alright, Enjolras, it really is.”

Enjolras’ brows creased even more. “R.”

“Can you do that again?” 

“R,” Enjolras’ lips quirked. He leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.  _ Yes. _

-

(If you see two boys looking at the stars on the rooftops of Paris, know their names are Enjolras and Grantaire. Grantaire with stars on his skin and Enjolras with stars in his eyes, the stars lean down to give them their blessing.)

**Author's Note:**

> not very proud of this one, but hope you enjoyed


End file.
